Enfleshed Evil, Part One

Gnashing of teethFueled by fearBy the faithful to a gospelThey personallyNot know yet.

Altars are lifted dailyTo the gods of comfortTo the gods of powerTo the gods of me and myselfTo the gods of manipulationAnd deceit.

The real altar’s veilWas rippedWith edges stained in Righteous bloodHealing and wholesome.Ready to pour out milk and honey sweet as can be.

Yet their worship were ritualsFor placing smoke curtainsto keep all doped in a haze of uncertainty and confusion.Any one halfhearted mastermind of mediocritycan shepherd half-living sheepWho no longer know whenthey Feed or thirst.